Shocking
by CelebratoryPenguin
Summary: Follows Season One finale, "The Great Game." John is shocked by what happens after Sherlock pulls the trigger, but that's nothing compared to the shock he experiences when they get home. Slash. Chapter 3 takes place immediately after Chapter 2.
1. Shocking

John was still shocked on multiple levels when he and Sherlock were finally released from Scotland Yard and allowed to go home.

It had been a shock when Sherlock shot the bomb vest instead of at Moriarty. A bigger shock still when the vest didn't explode. Moriatry wouldn't have put himself in that kind of danger, and it was somewhat shocking that it hadn't occurred to Sherlock right away. The biggest shock of all was seeing how many men Lestrade and Mycroft had managed to summon to the site before the gun even had time to go off.

Level Three surveillance, evidently, was powerful stuff.

Sherlock had some cuts from the debris caused by flying pool tile, mostly superficial, and an angry burn on his right palm from trying to tuck away John's gun while the barrel was still hot. John considered himself damn lucky that he hadn't shat himself from fear, much less that he'd gotten away without a scratch.

Lestrade, using strong terms in a brook-no-nonsense voice, threw both John and Sherlock out of Scotland Yard after an intense four-hour briefing that became a shouting match. They marched downstairs in grim silence only to find Mycroft waiting for them in front of a sleek black limousine. Mycroft said nothing to either of them, just opened the car door and climbed into the front passenger seat next to the driver.

The sun was making a half-hearted attempt to rise into a cold, grey London sky. Sherlock sulked in the back seat, long limbs twisted away from John, nose pressed to the window as if trying to see something in the extreme distance. No "sorry you were strapped to what we both thought was a bomb, John," no "thanks for offering your life for mine, John," no "I appreciated the understanding nod you gave when I silently suggested killing the both of us, John."

Bloody typical.

Once they reached Baker Street, John flung himself out of the car and straight up the stairs to his bedroom. While his personal habits had become less stringently military in the last few months, the need for order, for something regular, took hold of him. Every item of his clothing was put into the laundry hamper. He lined his shoes up precisely in the closet and set his watch on the nightstand with the dial facing the bed.

God only knew what kind of chaotic vortex Sherlock was creating below, John thought as he tipped his head and listened. No telly, meaning that Sherlock was going to find some other way to amuse himself. Instead of test tubes chattering against one another or even, God forbid, bullets being aimed at the wall, there was nothing. Silence.

Didn't expect that.

John shrugged, then found a pair of pyjamas that wouldn't be too rough against the patches of skin that had been rubbed raw by the weight of Moriarty's apparatus. He had barely had time to slip into them when he finally heard a sound. Stair. The eighth stair up to his bedroom creaked under any weight, and its protesting squawk meant that John's sanctuary was about to be invaded.

He steeled himself, standing straight with his arms folded as he waited for Sherlock to bluster through the door. What he wasn't prepared for was a knock. It was more like a scratch, really. Almost timid.

"John?" Sherlock's voice was smaller than John had ever heard it, not soft but actually small.

"Yeah." John ran his hand through his hair. "I'm awake, come in."

The door swung open slowly, revealing Sherlock, wrapped in his coat over pyjamas despite the warmth of the flat. He was hunched over, his pallid face marked with two spots of color high on his aristocratic cheekbones. He spoke at the same time as John.

"Sherlock, are you-"

"John, I need-"

John waved him on, frowning. "You first."

"I need a doctor."

Oh Christ, he was going into shock, or the burn was worse than John had first thought? "What's wrong?" he asked as he grasped Sherlock's wrist and examined the reddened palm. There were a few small blisters, undoubtedly painful but nothing that would have Sherlock asking for medical assistance. What, then? Sherlock's eyes were bright but not feverish, half-hooded under lids that were understandably drooping after a couple of sleepless nights. Pulse rapid but not thready, so not shock. "Sherlock - tell me what's wrong."

John couldn't make out the word that Sherlock half-grunted, half-whispered. It sounded like lard but that couldn't have been right. "What?"

Lowering his head, Sherlock murmured, "Hard."

"Hard? Hard to do what?"

Long seconds elapsed. Sherlock finally turned to John but his eyes were so nearly closed that they were impossible to read. He seemed to hunch over even further, as if collapsing in on himself. The flush on his face deepened to scarlet. He opened his mouth, closed it again, then took a deep breath and gave it another try.

"I'm. Hard." He waved his uninjured hand downward.

It took a Herculean effort for John not to burst out laughing. "You don't need a doctor for that."

"I do if it's been six hours."

The mental math wasn't difficult. "Adrenaline high from not being blown to Kingdom Come?" John winced at his own poor choice of words. He saw Sherlock's expression crack just a bit, the tiniest hint of a wry grin twisting at one corner of his mouth. "Okay, sorry, I'm not at my best right now. What you need is...hang on." He picked up his medical bag and rummaged around for a moment. "Pseudoephedrine. Vasoconstrictor, but you know that." Despite an unexpected tremor in his hand he managed to toss the package neatly to his flatmate. "Give it twenty minutes or so, then have a wank. I'll be sleeping the sleep of the not-quite-dead up here, won't hear a thing."

"Can't." The monosyllable sounded as if it had been taken hostage from Sherlock's more extensive vocabulary and left to die in the middle of the Sahara.

John blinked a few times. "Sherlock, I haven't slept in my own bed for two nights, I am not going to gad about London at this ungodly hour just so you can make noises-"

"No," Sherlock groaned. "I mean, I can't."

"You don't mean that you've never had an-"

"No, I'm fine in my sleep, or with other people. I just can't...myself. Doesn't work, never has."

While John took a moment to absorb this piece of entirely-too-personal information, Sherlock opened the package with a thumbnail and took out the pill, then swallowed it dry. Many uncomfortable moments elapsed.

"Well," John said at last, "that explains your encyclopedic knowledge of minutiae - nothing else to do during your teenaged years."

Sherlock's answering laugh was something between a cough and a bark. "How many of these can I take?" He winced, leaning forward a little more.

John's body twinged sympathetically. "I'd say one every eight hours, but we can make it one every four if the swelling doesn't subside-"

"I mean, how many can I take right now?"

It had been a struggle for Sherlock to ask the question, John realized, and his earlier resentment suddenly melted away. "It's that bad?"

Sherlock bit his lip, then nodded slowly. "It's...never been..." He lowered his head, misery and humiliation warring for dominance on his expression.

John was instantly by his side, peering up at Sherlock's face. His right hand, the one that didn't tremble, reached up and cupped one flushed cheek. "Sherlock. Look at me." The only answer he received was a negative shale of the head, so he decided to try humor. In his best imitation of Mrs. Hudson, he chirped, "I'm your friend, Sherlock, not just your doctor."

That earned him another quirk of the lips.

Keeping his tone light despite a sudden dryness in his mouth, John said, "Right, up you get." Sherlock just stared at him. "Coat off, up on the bed."

"No."

"C'mon, you went to public school, I've heard about-"

"No."

"Sherlock, believe me when I tell you that this isn't just going to go away on its own, not after six hours and a bit, no matter how much Sudafed you cram down your throat."

"I'm not going to have you lecture me on masturbation technique!"

"I wasn't planning a LECTURE!"

They were standing inches away from one another, John slightly on tiptoe to reduce the height difference, Sherlock trying but failing to lean away from John. For a moment John could not comprehend the expression on Sherlock's face because he had never seen it: utter confusion.

"You don't mean..."

John drew himself up taller. "What do you think I mean?"

"Hands-on demonstration?" Sherlock's voice rose in both pitch and volume. "You?"

"Unless you're intending to bring in a prostitute, to which I would object on the most strenuous terms, I don't see another solution." John forced himself to look Sherlock in the eye and found both resignation and humiliation in his friend's gaze. "I was in the army, Sherlock. Sometimes this happens."

"It doesn't happen to me." Sherlock sighed, "except right now, it is happening and it is embarrassing and it bloody hurts, John."

John nodded, keeping his breathing slow and even despite his rapidly climbing heartbeat. "Nothing else for it, then. Like ripping off a plaster, only...better." He reached up and slowly helped Sherlock out of his coat. "Get in bed. I'll make it darker in here. I promise not to look, okay?" True to his word, John drew the curtains and turned off the lights, giving Sherlock time to crawl under the covers unobserved. "I've got...just a minute." John went through his supplies again and pulled out a tube of lubricant. "I'll warm it in my hands first."

"Prepared, are we?" Sherlock asked, his tone amused yet strained at the same time.

"Not everyone in the world is an ascetic, Sherlock, so kindly piss off," was John's reply as he joined Sherlock on the bed. "I'll make this quick - just lie back and think of England. Or whatever, whoever." He heard Sherlock's breath hitch as he reached for the waistband of Sherlock's pyjama bottoms. The flesh was swollen to the point of unyielding rigidity. No wonder Sherlock was feeling so miserable.

Sherlock's eyes were squeezed shut, closing himself off from John's left hand. For his part, John was trying not to look at the outline of Sherlock's face in the muted light, to keep his thoughts clinical, or at least separate enough from his actions to prevent...

No, no, no. Not good, not good at all. He might be able to control himself, just barely, as long as he couldn't see Sherlock's face contort with pleasure, so John closed his eyes. Better. Now as long as he didn't hear Sherlock's voice...

"John." Dark, warm.

"Ssh."

"John." Warmer, breathier.

"Trying to concentrate, here."

Unsurprisingly, Sherlock didn't take the hint. "John, talk to me."

"Oh, for God's sake!" Sherlock liked details, so details he would get. "Anatomy lecture, part one. You're hard because blood has filled up your corpora. The corpora are the spongy areas on your penis. There are three of them, in case you're interested."

"Mmm."

John bit back a curse. "Your testicles are rising - did you know the right one goes up first in most men?"

He could almost hear Sherlock's eyes snapping open. "Actually, no, I didn't."

"Yep." John adjusted his grip, oddly pleased when Sherlock let out a surprised gasp. "The head of your penis is enlarging, and it's probably darker than when we started a few minutes ago."

Was Sherlock looking?

"Not enough light in here, I can't see."

Yes, he was looking.

"Sherlock, please focus. I'm getting quite a workout on my left shoulder from this and I don't know how much longer I can keep going, okay?"

"Okay." Sherlock's breathing was heavier now and his hips bucked up every few strokes. "Tell me more."

He had to be kidding. Anyone else would be. But this was Sherlock Holmes, not anyone else, surely not a normal man by anyone's definition. John turned a bit on his right side so his free hand came in contact with Sherlock's sweat-dampened hair. "Perineum feels warm, right?"

"Yes...yes..."

"Tingly?"

"That's not a scientific term." John changed the angle of his strokes and Sherlock actually groaned in pleasure. "Okay, yes, tingly."

"Now we're getting somewhere. Don't try to control your respiration, don't hold anything back. Your blood pressure's going to spike but that's normal, don't worry."

"John, I can't think anymore."

John fought the urge to silence Sherlock with a fierce kiss. He sighed instead. "It's fine."

No point thinking that I'm about to make you come, why would you want to think about something so...boring.

"John?"

Sherlock's voice was liquid sin.

"It's okay, Sherlock," John soothed, not feeling the least soothed himself. God, that voice was going to be the death of him.

"John, it's too much...I can't...oh, John, please..."

Not the little death, either. The big struck-down-in-his-prime-by-lightning death.

"It's okay, it's okay, ssh, just let it happen, you're starting to feel some spasms but it'll be good soon, I promise." John felt Sherlock's head thrashing back and forth on the pillow and continued to smooth his hair, which was now matted with sweat. "Are you all right?"

No words this time, just a soul-wrenching moan. "Ohhhhhhh..."

John tried not to laugh at the thought of how many people would pay a thousand pounds just to see this man go speechless. Sherlock let out another low cry and arched his back, and within a second John felt warm semen flowing over his fingers. Quickly John moved his hand away from the oversensitive organ and placed it low on Sherlock's abdomen. The sweat-sheened flesh was cool over fluttering muscles.

They lay together in a silence that was surprisingly free from awkwardness. Sherlock's left arm was thrown over his eyes and his right lay on top of the blankets, his injured hand facing upward. When John stilled his stroking of Sherlock's hair, Sherlock gave a little moan of disappointment and maneuvered himself until the top of his head collided with John's palm. The catlike gesture made John smile in the darkness, then he chuckled aloud.

"What?" Sherlock demanded.

"Nothing, nothing." The reply was negated by the laughter that bubbled out of him until he had to turn his head into the pillow to muffle it. John could feel Sherlock's body stiffen as if expecting a blow. "Nothing's wrong, it's just - well, I made Sherlock Holmes come."

To his surprise, Sherlock actually laughed. "Yes, you did. Rather spectacularly."

"And loudly," John added, feeling quite smug.

"Really? I don't remember. That's why I hadn't pursued orgasm more regularly - it dulls one's perceptions."

John rolled his eyes. "You're welcome." Finally, he had to deal with the reality that his left hand was sticking to Sherlock's skin. He peeled himself away with a grimace. "Need to clean up, be right back."

Walking wasn't as easy as he had hoped, not with the erection he'd gotten while pleasuring Sherlock. Nonetheless, John washed up, then returned to the bedroom with a warm, wet flannel in one hand and a glass of water in the other. "Your doctor says to drink this, you're dehydrated." Their fingers touched and John had to look away, unable to bear the gleam in Sherlock's eyes that was unmistakeable even in the muted light. They touched again when Sherlock handed back the glass, and John nearly jumped at the contact.

Sherlock wiped himself clean, then pulled his pyjama pants up. In doing so he flexed his burned hand and hissed in pain. "I hadn't noticed how much this hurt."

"You can only register pain in so many places at once," John said, taking the wet cloth from Sherlock and tossing it in the direction of the hamper. So much for military neatness. "Do you want ice for your hand?"

"John, would you take a look at it?"

Not in a million years, John thought. "I can't see it very well."

"Then turn on the lights," Sherlock said softly.

John froze, his shoulders slumped. "I can't."

"Can't, or won't?"

"Take your pick."

Sherlock shifted his body, long legs stretching so far they undid the covers at the foot of the bed. "John, you just gave me a tutorial in my personal hydraulics whilst supplying the most astonishing orgasm I've ever known, but you won't look at me?"

When he put it that way...wait.

"You don't have orgasms. Saying that I gave you your most astonishing orgasm is the same as saying I'm your favourite flatmate."

"I DO have orgasms, I just can't produce one on demand." Only Sherlock could mumble and sound exasperated at the same time. "Since I sleep through most of them, obviously they're not very interesting. And occasionally when I've dabbled in things 'outside my area,' as I once described it to you, there's been some degree of success."

"Not exactly a ringing endorsement of sexuality," John commented wryly as he perched on the edge of the bed opposite Sherlock. "No wonder you've been wanting to give it a miss."

"I have new data," Sherlock said, drawing out each word as if testing its weight. "My hypothesis might be faulty."

"You don't mind having your senses dulled?"

There was a pause while Sherlock considered the question. "Not all my senses were dulled, John. Some of them were...particularly gratified."

John's breath came out in a mirthless laugh. "Feeling better, then?"

"Much. Although oddly I'm wide awake and half asleep at the same time."

"That's the combination of the Sudafed and the sex. I'd go with the sleep if I were you. God knows that's my plan." He expected Sherlock to get up at that point, but there was no movement. John looked over his shoulder and saw Sherlock lying on his side, his piercing gaze focused on John. "Oi. Planning to go to your own bedroom any time soon?"

"Why? Do I take up too much room?"

Right. That was too much. John gritted his teeth and stood up, grunting at the effort. "Fine. Then I'll just go lie on your bed, assuming there isn't some sort of experiment going on involving a straw hat, some nail varnish, and a kangaroo foetus."

"You're rather tense, Doctor Watson," Sherlock said around a yawn. "Perhaps you should have a good wank."

"You...you know what? I should throw myself down right here beside you and do just that." John sat down again, hoping that the collision of his ass and the mattress jolted Sherlock in an unpleasant way. "Except you'd probably enjoy it."

Sherlock's voice was deep, dangerous. Tempting. "Probably. I would probably learn a great deal from observing you."

"Yeah, followed by immediate deletion from your hard drive? Flattering, but I'll pass."

"Oh, no. I'd keep this information." There was a pause that somehow reminded John of a smirk. "And I'd almost certainly want to help."

Exasperated and more than a little aroused, John scrubbed his hands over his face as he turned toward Sherlock. "If you're just winding me up, Sherlock, then I swear to you-"

Whatever he was about to swear never found words, because Sherlock pulled John down to the bed and began softly stroking along his jawline.

"Come on, John," Sherlock wheedled. "Show me something shocking."


	2. Computing

Chapter 2

_"Come on, John," Sherlock wheedled. "Show me something shocking."_

Sherlock didn't consider himself a sensitive man by any stretch of the imagination.

Because he dealt in rational thought, he struggled when an overload of pure, hedonistic sensory information ricocheted around his finely-tuned mind. There was no partition of his hard drive that could catalog John's husky voice coaxing him to orgasm, no means to categorize how it was John's hand in his hair that had brought him over the edge, no logical explanation for the fact - the clear, unarguable fact - that John had managed to pleasure him in ways he could never have done on his own.

That John knew him better than he did himself did not, could not, would not ever compute..

Sherlock turned all of these concepts over in his brain whilst stroking along the edge of John's jaw. For all his vanities - and Sherlock knew there were good reasons for each of them - he hated his weak jawline. John's was much better. It moved as John let out a slow sigh.

"If that's supposed to make me forget that I'm horny," John murmured, "it's a complete failure."

Knowing that his touch was keeping John aroused...well, that simply blew out every circuit in Sherlock's mental processor. He let his lips curl upward in a Cheshire Cat smile. "I seldom experience failure - only a different form of success."

John let out a surprised bark of laughter. "Sherlock, why are you still on my bed?"

"Post-orgasmic lassitude. And curiosity."

"I'm going to regret this," John sighed as he rolled over to face Sherlock, "but curiosity about what?"

"You're curious that I'm curious?"

"Stop that."

Sherlock adjusted himself so that he could still cup John's face in his hand. "You were surprised when I told you that I can't bring myself to orgasm. Your surprise indicated that you are able to do that successfully for yourself, and your ability to use that knowledge to my advantage proved your skill. Now I would like to see you apply those skills to your own...impressive...needs."

John's face turned a becoming shade of scarlet. "You mean you were serious? You really want to watch me masturbate?"

"Or I could help, as I told you earlier." The immediate look of panic on John's face took Sherlock by surprise. "What? You helped me. And you said that in the army..." He turned on his 'sad Sherlock face,' the one that made John do the shopping and wash the dishes. "You did something kind for me - why is it wrong that I'd want to return the favor?"

John wasn't buying into the look or the words. Sherlock was a little proud of him, even though that would mean finding a new weapon of manipulation. John stared him down. "Sherlock, just say you think it'd be interesting and be done with it."

"It would be endlessly fascinating."

Rolling his eyes heavenward, John pulled the duvet down past his hips and flopped onto his back. He lay spread-eagled on the bed, one thigh brushing tantalizingly against Sherlock's. "Right, then. Pass me that tube, would you?"

Surprised to find that his hands trembled a bit, Sherlock found the lubricant and handed it to John. John smeared some between his palms, then grinned. "Bring back memories?"

"Shut up." Sherlock watched wide-eyed as John ran the back of his fingers over his own nipples and downward in a v-shape toward his pelvis, then up again. The gesture was foreign yet intriguing. "Does that help?" Sherlock asked.

"Sherlock, I swear to God..."

"Tell me!"

John groaned. "It's called the milk line. Groin to axilla. Most people are...quite responsive." He stopped over his nipples, palms hovering just above the hardening flesh.

"So that's a sensitive area for men, as well?"

"Don't want to talk just now," John grumbled.

"Sorry." But he wasn't, not at all, not as John repeated the movement a few more times then reached downward with a long sigh. A few more synapses fired helpelessly through Sherlock's brain when John grasped his erection and began to pump firmly and rhythmically. Was that what his own penis had looked like, swollen and purplish, with a few drops of silvery fluid leaking over the head? Had his face and chest been flushed pink? Had his nipples been as hard as John's?

Sherlock experimented along his own chest and abdomen. Nothing. Damn. He looked over at John and found the dark blue gaze fixed on him with amusement but also...was that compassion? Why?

To Sherlock's surprise, John ran his free hand down Sherlock's body from the top of the pectoral muscle to the rise of his hip. Fire scorched every nerve. Sherlock shut his eyes, revelling in the pleasant sensation of fullness between his legs that remained even when John's hand fell away. It was a response worth cataloguing, and would be a remarkably interesting experiment to perform on John...

John's voice, little more than a harsh gasp, broke into his reverie. "If you want to watch...better get ready..."

The husky tone sent a further jolt through Sherlock's entire body. He snapped his eyes open just in time to watch John's hand speed up until it almost blurred, just in time to hear a breath drawn between tightly clenched teeth.

John's back arched, head and heels firmly anchored to the mattress, hips thrusting wildly. He groaned softly, and again, and on the third wonderful, impossibly intimate sound he came all over his hand and stomach.

Before Sherlock had time to process what he had seen, John was already cleaning himself off and pulling the duvet snugly up to his chest with a satisfied sigh. Sherlock blinked slowly at him. "Is that all?"

"What?"

Sherlock was seldom at a loss for words, but this situation had struck him nearly aphasic. He waved one hand in a vague circle outlining John's relaxed body.

"Sherlock, what the hell...?"

He didn't know how to express it. Something like sadness washed over him, that John had been so efficient and guarded while Sherlock had been almost wanton. Wasn't it supposed to be more pleasurable? Shouldn't there have been a loss of control, something other than a smothered gasp?

His confusion must have been obvious because John suddenly gave him "that" smile, the indulgent one. "You were expecting a bit more of a show."

Fidgeting with the bedcovers, Sherlock forced himself to look John in the eye. "Is that how you always do it? So quickly? And quietly?"

"What did you expect - tearing up the sheets and screaming?"

That was exactly what Sherlock had expected, or at least some writhing interspersed with groans of pleasure. "I've seen you sneeze with more enthusiasm," Sherlock groused.

"Listen to me." John curved his body so that he was resting against Sherlock's side. "I'm not used to taking a lot of time doing this. I'm certainly not accustomed to having an audience. The army, then the hospital, then this flat with you always wandering about - I got used to taking care of my needs 'quickly and quietly,' as you just described it." He slipped one arm over Sherlock's chest. The warmth of his palm seemed to seep directly into Sherlock's heart. "Plus, I was fairly wound up when I started."

Finally, something that made sense. "So you do feel significant enjoyment - it's the particular circumstances that can sometimes affect the duration and-"

"Seriously, Sherlock, could you please shut up now?" John wriggled further into the bedclothes. "I had a nice buzz going before you began analyzing the last ten minutes of my night."

"That was never ten minutes."

"Shut up."

Sherlock searched John's face for clues. The flush had dissipated but there was perspiration on John's forehead and upper lip, and a little bit at the hollow of his throat. His mouth was relaxed, lips slightly parted, and his breathing was beginning to deepen and even out. The expressive eyes were closed.

"John, are you falling asleep?"

A sigh, a fluttering of the dark-gold eyelashes, and suddenly John was staring him down with vengeance written across his face. "In the past half-hour I've tended your needs and let you watch me tend mine, whilst giving lectures in anatomy and human sexuality to, frankly, a fairly annoying pupil. Would it be completely unreasonable for me to ask you, please, to give me some peace?"

"You're rather cross for a man who's just gotten off," Sherlock remarked.

"I get sleepy when I climax. I get cranky when I'm deprived of my sleep. Do the math, Sherlock."

A few minutes of silence were all Sherlock could endure, particularly when his curiosity was so piqued. "Was it good? I mean, it didn't take long or last long, so perhaps it didn't feel-"

"I came. I'd been on the edge, it didn't take much to push me over, and when I did I guarantee you that it felt just fine."

"So," Sherlock continued after only half-listening to John's explanation, "it aroused you. Touching me aroused you?"

John groaned then, but it was not the type of vocalization that had been in Sherlock's fantasy. "I had my hands all over you, and you came all over me. How could that not get me horny?" He pulled back the covers, exposing both of their nude bodies. "You don't even like sex and you're hard as a rock from watching me."

It was almost a surprise. Sherlock glanced down the length of his body. His erection seemed as if it belonged to someone else - or it would have, if he had not been overcome with a wave of pure need that melted his motherboard.

A puerile joke about hard drives died on Sherlock's lips.

No longer half-asleep, John was looking up and down Sherlock's nude form with an expression that could only be called predatory. "Know what, Sherlock?" John murmured. "I think it's time for you to do the teaching."

Sherlock swallowed audibly, no longer in control of a single atom in his body. By the time John had leaned over him, his face mere inches from Sherlock's, there was no hope of a simple reboot; the entire infrastructure was about to be reconstructed.

John's smile was full of promises. "Put on a show for me."


	3. Show and Tell

Shocking, Chapter 3: Show and Tell

_Sherlock swallowed audibly, no longer in control of a single atom in his body. By the time John had leaned over him, his face mere inches from Sherlock's, there was no hope of a simple reboot; the entire infrastructure was about to be reconstructed._

_John's smile was full of promises. "Put on a show for me."_

* * *

John had made his demand without any idea what might happen next. Sherlock could very well laugh at him, or sulk that John wasn't willing to give him another hand job, or even decide he'd grown tired of the game and walk away.

"I'm hardly likely to walk off in this state," Sherlock murmured, casting his glance upward from his erection to John's questioning face.

"How do you manage to answer questions I was only thinking - oh, never mind." Sighing, John lay down again, leaning on one arm and using his other hand to stroke Sherlock's thigh. "So, what about this show?"

"You were remarkably unspecific about what constitutes 'a show.' I need data, not vague innuendo."

John was unable to control the urge to burst out laughing. Sherlock, for his part, looked hurt and puzzled for a few seconds before schooling his features back into a haughty mask of indifference. "You are hardly going to get what you want by mocking me, John."

Still snickering, John moved his hand upward from thigh to groin. "I'd be more concerned for what you want, if I were you."

Electricity crackled across the brief silence that ensued until Sherlock broke it with a whisper. "I'm not particularly adept at taking care of my own wants."

"Bit of an understatement, there. You'd be dead of malnutrition without Mrs. Hudson or me looking after you. How the hell did you manage before we came along?"

"Drugs," Sherlock snapped.

John's chest tightened at the thought of what Sherlock must have been like: a strung-out wreck alternating between catatonia and mania, wasting his life, wasting his incredible mind...

His expression must have mirrored his thoughts, because Sherlock cupped John's face in one palm and gave him a brief smile. "I got better," he stated.

"But not at articulating your wants."

"No." Sherlock's face flushed and he dropped his gaze.

"So this business of being the smartest guy in the world isn't too helpful at a moment like this?" John watched, his heart pounding, as Sherlock sadly shook his head. "See, I may not be your intellectual equal-" Sherlock snorted but kept his head lowered as John continued. "Fine, then. I'm definitely not your intellectual equal, but if I were...if I were you, if I were an amazing, incomparably brilliant man, I'd find a way to show what I want."

Sherlock's quick intake of breath was possibly the most erotic sound John had ever heard. "I don't have the words," Sherlock murmured. "I don't know them."

"You? You and your vast vocabulary?" It came out sharper than John had intended, more cynical and less cajoling. He winced as Sherlock looked up at him with eyes full of wounded pride.

Fix it, John, he told himself. He took Sherlock's hand in his, stroking the chill-roughened knuckles with his own callused thumb.

"Sometimes when you talk to me, Sherlock, I feel as if someone were pounding me over the head with a bloody enormous dictionary."

At last, a brief, huffed chuckle. "There are occasions when I wish I could do just that."

Apology accepted, then.

Sherlock smiled at last, just a flicker of humour. across his pale, tired face. "I do know the words. I just don't put them into the proper order. Not in these sorts of situations."

"What kind of 'situations?' When there are emotions involved? Those petty little things that distract you from your work?"

"Not all emotions are petty, John."

John swallowed the lump that rose in his throat. For Sherlock Holmes to make that statement was tantamount to an admission of affection. He swallowed a second time, just to ensure that he could speak without his voice cracking. "Neither are desires. You can tell me what you want, what you need."

"I can't, I can't, John, don't you see?" Sherlock's voice rose and it took several painful moments before John could identify the tone.

Helpless. Sherlock Holmes felt helpless, and John was surprised at how much that did not make him feel superior, or even mildly happy. He just wanted to ease Sherlock's torment.

"It doesn't have to be in words." He tried to keep his voice soft. Gentle. Soothing. "Just tell me, however you can manage it."

Their gazes met and locked, blue on blue, needful.

"I want...I want ..." Sherlock grasped John's head with both hands and pulled him close-not for a kiss, but to wrap him up in long arms and long legs, holding so tightly that John almost couldn't breathe. After a few moments, Sherlock released his willing captive and used one finger to trace a tiny scar at John's left temple, the remnant of a blow from the butt of a Black Tong gun. Sherlock pressed his lips to the spot and John's body flooded with warmth. When Sherlock used both hands to imitate the movement of taking off the Semtex-laden vest, John couldn't help a whisper of his name.

"Sherlock."

Those restless hands continued their exploration, long fingers whisking away any lingering feeling of tightness where the explosives had pressed, uncomfortable and unwanted, against tender flesh. John exhaled loudly and wrapped strangely shaky arms around his companion.

Sherlock rested his chin on John's sternum. The stubble from their long, long day prickled John's skin, but he would not have moved Sherlock away for all the world. When Sherlock spoke, his voice was dark and thick with a degree of sentiment few had ever heard. "So. Now you know."

Powerless to speak, John simply nodded and brought one hand to tangle in Sherlock's hopelessly disheveled curls. To keep John safe, that was what Sherlock longed for most. To protect him, and when that failed, to help heal the wounds that followed.

Oh, Sherlock.

Just as suddenly as the wordless confession had begun, it ended, and Sherlock pulled away to kneel at the end of the bed. He was still wonderfully erect, almost as hard as he had been when the whirlwind had started, and to John's surprise he began to stroke himself in a slow, steady rhythm. "I did promise you a show, after all."

Despite years of medical training and practice, John wondered if there could be something to the legend of spontaneous human combustion.

He watched, mesmerized and open-mouthed, as Sherlock continued to pleasure himself. Everything was elongated: fingers, arm, wrist, cock, legs. Long and straining and impossibly erotic.

He became aware that Sherlock was watching him, a quizzical look on his flushed face. "You're enjoying this," he said in a surprisingly emotionless voice.

"Rather a lot, yes," John replied. "Does that surprise you?"

Sherlock nodded and took in a deep breath. "I don't understand why."

Was the man blind, or daft, or both?

"Are you blind, or daft, or both?" John leaned forward and touched Sherlock's thigh. The flesh was superheated; the muscle beneath was tense. "Turn around. Face the other way."

He clambered out of bed-his knees were still shaky from his orgasm, not to mention what he was witnessing-and opened the door to his wardrobe. "There. Can you see yourself?" Sherlock nodded again, silently. "Keep watching." John returned to the bed, knelt behind Sherlock, and wrapped one arm around him. Their gazes met and held in the mirror. Sherlock nodded. John smiled. "Now, start again. I'll tell you why, and this time you'll see yourself through my eyes."

Surprisingly, Sherlock did exactly as he was told, and without comment. He stroked himself again and John nodded his approval until Sherlock looked down and away from the mirror. "No, no, keep watching."

"This is ridiculous, this is-"

"Hot. So shut up and keep wanking."

Obedient Sherlock was a carnal delight. He copied some of the movements John had used earlier, flicks of the wrist, a thumb over the head of his erection, thrusts up into his hand. His face and chest began to flush, and his eyes, while still meeting John's reflection, were not quite focused.

"Now do you know why I want to watch?" John breathed into the nape of Sherlock's neck. "Christ, you're so lush, you're so fucking stunning."

"If you...say so..." Sherlock panted.

Chuckling, John pushed his own hips forward until his new erection was snug against Sherlock's lower back. In the mirror he could see the surprise on Sherlock's expression. "I say so. I'm saying it with my whole fucking body, Sherlock: I want to see you come."

"It probably won't work," Sherlock hissed through gritted teeth. "Not even after...what you showed me..." He began to move his hand faster, his back arching ever upwards in search of release. "But I'll try...for you..."

John's mouth went utterly dry.

His eyes, however, were moist. Even with his dimmed vision, John could plainly see Sherlock's desperation. John moved even closer, his chest so tight against Sherlock's back that he could feel his flatmate's shallow breaths. Sherlock gasped as John's hand wrapped around Sherlock's and they both worked his length. "I won't let you suffer," he whispered. "I've got you."

Sherlock thrust into their joined hands and shuddered. "Yes. Yes, you do."

If John had thought Sherlock was exquisite before, he had no words for what he-they-looked like together. John teased Sherlock's nipples with his free hand, making Sherlock tremble and lean backwards until his head rested against John's. Sherlock's mouth was open and in between gasps for air he moaned words like "please" and "more" and "harder."

And "John."

It was all John could do to keep from roaring with need. Everything was Sherlock, he was drowning in Sherlock, he was surrounded by flesh and groans and, oh, God, those beautiful eyes were staring straight into his soul.

What the hell was happening to him?

What the hell was happening to them both?

As if in answer, Sherlock's body arched, stiffened, then convulsed wildly. John watched semen spill out over their linked hands while Sherlock keened his pleasure by repeating John's name over and over again.

At about the second moan of "Ohhh, John," John found himself thrusting into the cleft of Sherlock's ass. His own orgasm happened a few moans later, his own cries mingling with Sherlock's until they were both nearly hoarse and completely, utterly, blissfully spent.

They stared at one another in the mirror, panting hard.

"Nope," John rasped, "no reason you'd enjoy seeing that."

Sherlock's face was a kaleidoscope of emotions that John was fairly certain had not surfaced for a long time, if ever. The full lips worked silently for a moment as if forming unfamiliar words.

"It's okay, Sherlock. You don't have to talk." John lifted their entwined fingers to his mouth and kissed them, sticky and sweaty as they were. "I know. You showed me, and now I know."

Sherlock nodded his thanks. He leaned backwards, toppling John, and they ended up lying on the bed, facing one another. As close as they were, John missed the feel of Sherlock's skin against his, so he let out a contented sigh when Sherlock cupped his face in both hands.

"I'm going to kiss you," was the first sentence Sherlock had been able to string together since the spectacular orgasm they'd shared.

And as John met him halfway, he knew better than to be shocked.

* * *

End of the "Shocking" trilogy.


End file.
